The sting in my eyes competes with the sting in my heart. I steady my hand to write out the name and number of one of my best friends as an emergency contact for my son-turned-man. We are visiting the hospital for the second time in twenty-four hours. When it rains, it pours with accidents and emergencies, as has happened to this child who has not been admitted to a hospital since infancy.
I’ve always tried to have a non-family emergency contact in addition to family members. The ink bleeds out my heart onto the sterile medical form. Athena Grady.
The sting spans a chasm between hollow, aching sadness and deep, joy-filled gratitude.
Every expat mother is keenly aware of the impending day when she will leave adult children in the care of others as she crosses the bridge from parenting to empty nesting. There’s an ocean between mother and child for the empty nesting expat parent.
The realities of the looming separation became cruelly clear in the months leading up to that plane flight away from my kids, and I asked myself if I’d taught them everything they needed to know.
We’ve spent years preparing for this moment by teaching them how to use laundry machines, check their oil, exchange insurance information after a fender bender, and respectfully advocate for themselves. But I know I’m forgetting things and that moments will arise when my failure to teach every aspect of adulting will hit home. And something about that stings sad.
That’s where I need someone to help bridge the gap.
I close my eyes and lean back in the waiting room chair. A moment of thanks demands my attention. Our kids are rich in their network of incredible grandparents, family, friends, church, and community. The village that has stepped up to take part in raising our kids both in South Africa and in the U.S. is the stuff made of dreams. So, when I choose the name of the woman who will be on call for my kids in case of emergency, something about it stings gratitude.
I choose a woman who has known my kids since they penned their first ABCs. She’s the woman who remembers their birthdays and has a card and present waiting for them at church every time we’re on home assignment. She’s the one who makes us feel very unforgotten even when years pass between our proximity.
She regularly has us over for tacos into the sacred space of her home. She is trustworthy with my heart when I have hard things to share. She bridges the gaps in my geographical absence of knowing who got married, lost a spouse, and who the new teachers are at the school my kids attend while on home assignment. She keeps me in the loop but never gossips. That’s an art.
She answers my questions about cultural shifts since I’ve been gone, American expectations, and how to have fun in the land of red, white, and blue. Her integrity surfaces when she has conflict with someone but speaks no ill of them, even privately. She texts my kids just to check on them and let them know she cares. I trust her implicitly to speak truth and life into their hearts.
She doesn’t mind when her body gets a little tired if the energy is spent on the ones she loves. Her tireless dedication to her kids and to her community speaks of a forward-thinking woman with a vision for the future. She’s the one setting up decorations and tearing down tables after graduation parties and funerals, but she’s also no pushover. That’s also an art.
If and when an emergency arises for my kids while I’m an ocean away, I want to make sure the life-altering phone call goes through to someone who knows them, loves them, and has already proven to move mountains to make sure they’re ok. I want someone who has the capacity to take the world on her shoulders and make a wise split-second decision if the moment calls for it.
In my work training expat families all over the world, I’m often met with quizzical looks when I speak of the need to establish a clear crisis plan while living overseas. In ministry, we speak often of succession plans and passing the baton when we’re no longer around. But do we make such clear plans for our children?
If something happens to both parents, who gets your kids? Do you have a legal plan for a caretaker to be able to step in? Will your host country allow your kids to exit the country with a non-parent caretaker? Does your emergency contact know where you keep your passports? Who will be your kids’ interim caretaker in the host country until family can reach them? Who is your kids’ emergency contact in the U.S. when they repatriate? These are questions we can’t wish away.
Growing up as a TCK in rural Africa, my dad was often involved in the security systems of our organization. As such, my parents had contingency plans in case of evacuation, medevac, or parent death. I knew who would care for me in my host country until extended family could get to me from the U.S. I knew who would adopt me if worst case scenarios became my reality. There would be no added trauma of rejection, surprise, or family warring over who would be my caretaker.
I knew exactly what would happen to me if both of my parents died, which is not unrealistic for many expat families living in extremely remote, low-resource, high-crime, or war-torn areas. I found comfort in knowing our plan. I lost expat aunties and uncles to plane crashes and sudden illness. I watched expat families evacuate in and out from Chad and DR Congo. I watched the panic of families trying to figure out logistics during the mental health crisis of a family member. As a child, I knew that no one was exempt from disaster. Having no plan would have terrified me.
My kids are second-generation TCKs, and they’ve also always known our plan. They knew who would take care of them in South Africa until family could come get them. They knew which state they would live in and which aunt and uncle would adopt them. They knew that aunt and uncle would move heaven and earth to make sure they grew up knowing both sides of their family. And now, as young adults, they know that Athena Grady is another safe, reliable adult grafted into our system.
I look into the eyes of the boy and girl I’m about to leave behind, and my heart stings sad. My gaze drops to the medical clipboard and lands on the name of the one of the strongest women I’ve ever known, and my heart stings grateful. I know my kids are in good hands.
